There are days...
...when I wish I could write more, and as eloquently as I did during one of my ill-fated courtships. These days, I've too little time to write. All I can get away with are a few lines of incoherent meandering text, the scrawled letters leaning this way and that, like a drunken fool.
Back then I WAS a drunken fool, besotted with white shoulders, long chestnut hair, sienna eyes, thousand watt smile and alto speaking voice. I seriously DON'T want to be that way again, hanging onto another's every word and gesture like my life depended on it. But that's the way of all muses, so I'm told. Be they God, or Woman, Man or Art, one's muse is a jealous master. And I may have been bereft of one for far too long.
I long to be able to paint again, to feel linseed oil and charcoal and burnt sienna between my fingertips as I add one more correction to my depiction of an angel's face.
I long to... graduate, in almost every sense of the word. I want to transition from this perpetual fumbling and groping towards meaning, purpose and financial security. (Fumbling and groping are put to much better use in the bedchamber). I want my certainty but I sure as hell won't take it from someone who thinks he knows better, Hallelujah.
There are days when just how lost I am hits me like a stake to the heart. And there are days when I am simply too busy to care too much about it. This is, perhaps, the only real upside to working in an office.